Nightingale
by Sophia Lorraine
Summary: "The story of his life with Sherlock Holmes both began and ended in solitude-in both instances that this life had occurred. Time was a cruel and quite possibly insane mistress, after all; one whom believed that a story could end before its chronological beginning." In which John and Sherlock are sent back and become their more famous literary selves. Wholock
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer: I do not claim ownership of any characters, settings, or franchises used in this fanfiction. This is a non-profit, fan-made piece of writing. All I ask is that you, the reader, please leave some sort of feedback. In addition, I'd like to add that there were some errors that occurred as I was writing this chapter, so please inform me of any run-on sentences or anything like that. I apologize for the inconvenience, and I tried my best to fix all of them, but I may have missed something. Thank you.

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The story of any man's life begins and ends with complete and utter solitude. John Watson, of course, knew this all too well. After all, his own story, as it was by far the most exciting and fulfilling time of his life, began with the aftermath of a war and ended with the aftermath of his best friend.

"Suicide of Fake Genius", the paper had read the next morning.

Of course, he knew it to be a complete load of rubbish. Sherlock Holmes was by far the most intelligent man he'd ever met, and by no stretch of the imagination was this brilliance fake. Such a tarnished label was insulting to his memory.

The headline played down just how unbearably silent the flat had been since the fall.

221B had never been this quiet;this unbearably grim. The police found the abandoned mobile phone on the roof of the building. They listened to Moriarty's unintentional confession, and when John was called in as well to hear it for some sort of witness's testimonial that he'd hardly paid attention to the explanation of, he broke down.

Sherlock Holmes, his best friend, and as far as he was concerned the smartest man in the world, had died to save him. If he and the others hadn't been threatened, Sherlock would still be alive and as insufferably wonderful as ever.

The worst part of it was that even without this great genius, this sole consulting detective, the world kept turning as if nothing had happened.

Everyone carried on as if Sherlock wasn't dead and John wasn't dying himself.

There are many who attest to the days after the untimely demise of a loved one being agonizing to the point of those left behind wishing to meet a similar fate. John, however, found this not to be true. The days since Sherlock had blended together and become weeks, then months, as he followed his schedule like clockwork.

He'd started working at the clinic again, and had come to hate it; to almost resent the sympathetic and unknowingly patronizing stares, the hushed tones that people seemed to take around him. It served only as a reminder of what he had lost.

His days became life before Sherlock all over again, but with the added grief that he had once known a better, happier existence that he would never get back. He moved out of 221B and swallowed his pride enough to move in with Harry.

It had become too painful to stay in the flat, although he felt guilty for leaving Mrs. Hudson behind. While he did manage to keep in contact with her, it simply wasn't the same; plain and simple.

Time passed, and his monotony was finally broken again, although whether or not it was for the better was questionable at best. Although he had not heard from Lestrade in quite a while, one morning his phone rang with what he found to be a text from the detective inspector himself.

The long-awaited message was nothing more than an address, plain and simple. Not even a greeting, although John had to admit that he was relieved by that.

He couldn't understand what Greg wanted him there for; after all, he'd always been Sherlock's plus one. Nonetheless, his curiosity peaked, he drove out to the address without hesitation. It was about half an hour or so from where he'd been staying with his older sister, although with his anxiety it seemed to be much longer.

Left alone to his thoughts, he was relieved to finally pull up at the old house. Rightfully pushing aside any hopes of small talk, John was pleased to see that Lestrade got right down to business. A young woman had apparently disappeared from this house, leaving behind a very confused friend.

The victim's name was Katherine Nightingale, and apparently there had been no signs of a struggle or anything of the like. Anderson was questioning her friend and sole witness, Sally Sparrow, at the time of his arrival.

There was a tense atmosphere surrounding the officers at the crime scene, and none dared to mention the deceased consulting detective as John got right to work looking around. He was not nearly as clever as his friend had been, but he decided to try his best to solve this all the same.

Although the former army doctor spent up to two hours at the crime scene, he was absolutely stumped. There was no way that Katherine could have been kidnapped like this, and it was absolutely ridiculous to think that she could have run away without Sally noticing.

Anderson had relayed to him something the girl had said that John had been turning over in his mind and considering ever since. She'd insisted that at the time of Kathy's disappearance, there were several stone angel statues scattered around the area.

However, when they were investigating, he'd seen absolutely none. It was for this reason that he decided to investigate further that night. John had a bad feeling about all of this; he'd been uneasy since the morning before, when he'd seen a blue police box sitting on the street corner. Surely such a thing hadn't been around since the sixties, so how was it here?

Something strange was obviously going on, and he couldn't ignore it.

The house, fading and vaguely run-down, was eerie at night, giving John the distinct feeling that he was being watched. This nervousness urged at the back of his mind; insisting that he turn around and leave.

He ignored it.

In the upstairs of the estate, which was damp, dark, and rank with the odor of age, he encountered one such statue. It was bowed in what could be either grief or prayer, eyes shielded by its hands.

Frowning, he approached it tentatively, examining it with his eyebrows furrowed in thought. How on earth did it get here? He could have sworn he'd searched the entire place, and had not found a single statue.

Unable to possibly fathom the immanent and unsavory consequences of doing so, John blinked.

He found himself in the bustling, cobbled streets of London.

Something was not quite right, though. The pavement, replaced by stone, was occupied by horse-drawn carriages and people dressed in clothing that had gone out of style a long, long time ago.

Eyes wide, John swore under his breath in disbelief. Of course, this disbelief had to wait, as a moment later he quickly dodged from out of the way of a carriage.

"Oh my god, I must be dreaming. Please tell me I'm dreaming." He muttered under his breath to no one in particular.

He wasn't.


	2. Chapter 2

A bit of time had passed since his arrival in this old, long lost London. John had, of course, realized that this was in fact not a dream. As any person of considerable sense would, after the initial panic, he came to understand that he would most likely not be returning to his own time.

This fact had, at first, terrified him, but with time he calmed enough to accept it. It was a better fate to live in this time, before Sherlock Holmes; centuries before he was even an idea.

Far easier to live before even his own lifespan, than in the dull and painful post-Sherlock haze that had previously become his life.

It was a lonely life; to precede every single person he had ever met. However, it was no worse than to live with the stares from those who remembered his affiliation with the deceased consulting detective.

He'd since taken up the medical profession once again, and began practicing out of the flat he'd bought for himself. It was as close to fulfilling as he could get.

John had surrounded himself in this new life with books to read, patients to cure, and women to charm. He only received one offer of help with his business. A young woman by the name of Abagail Criss showed up one morning at his flat, asking if he had any work for her.

He accepted, and she began to work with him. She moved in with him two years later. In three years' time, they fell in love and were married, and Sherlock Holmes was stored away in the back of John's mind.

Abagail asked him many times; why did he keep an old, rotten apple on the mantlepiece? It was ugly, shriveled with illegible scratches carved into its soft, brown and dark red flesh. Such a disgusting thing certainly took away from the room, but John simply replied every time by telling her that it was for an old friend.

He forbade her to throw it away, no matter how vile it became.

For about a year or so, John took up painting. He kept practicing, but somehow his sketches and finished works ended up looking similar. He burned them.

The flat he now shared with his wife, faded but still a lovely place to live with an admirable view, started to feel strange for a little, although afterwards he just continued onward like clockwork.

Over the years, the passion from his marriage faded gradually into a lasting fondness, and John started to put on some weight. He was a little out of shape; plump, and soft from the years since the excitement of his days in the war and with Sherlock.

A large mustache had taken up residence on his upper lip, one that Abagail teased was a sign of his growing age.

He had her, but at the same time the loneliness still ached inside.

The apple continued to rot, and on the inside so did he with it.

It had been ten years since his arrival, and the world he had built for himself started to change at last.

John heard talk, often from his parents, of a detective that had started solving cases independently. It did not hold his attention at first, until he began to hear more and more about this strange genius whom had suddenly appeared with no known background.

It brought back memories; ones from his previous life that he'd tried to forget.

Still, his life continued uninterrupted for quite a while, until at last he felt the need to hear more. One of his patients in particular was more than happy to tell him of the great skill and cunning this new detective possessed.

He was intrigued, although he knew that this false hope of Sherlock's return was inevitably going to devastate him. It was a fact that he was very much aware of; that no matter how much he wished it to be true, Sherlock Holmes was dead and gone. In fact, he didn't even exist yet.

The thought was somewhat sobering, for all of its loneliness.

John continued to investigate what he'd heard by no means but simply asking around in hopes of a name.

One brisk Sunday in March, he finally found one. It shattered the comfortable, dull existence he had made for himself the moment it was spoken, leaving a shocked silence in its wake as everything John knew came crashing down.

Every single thought since the fall weighed in his mind; his heart sore and at the same time plummeted as he knew that every last desperate hope came true at long last.

The one last miracle he had pleaded for so long ago; a different man in a different century, had come true at long last.

His patient uttered the very name that John himself had wailed out into the night for years. The same name that claimed ownership of every tear he had shed in the last ten years.

It was the name that had plagued his dreams for years before that fateful day, left several centuries in the future.

The mysterious detective he had heard so much about went by none other than Sherlock Holmes, the world's only consulting detective.

John Watson, for the first time in a decade, was no longer alone.


End file.
